


Memories of Terror

by Zinfandel



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Golden Age, Goldenfrost Week, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 06:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zinfandel/pseuds/Zinfandel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kozmotis Pitchiner is flooded by the most horrific Nightmares ever imagined. Sometimes he loves them...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories of Terror

**Author's Note:**

> For Golden Frost Week! Day 1: Memories!  
> I apologize in advance. :>

He sits for a moment, lost in thought. The thought takes over, and there is nothing else but this. This memory, this horrible, horrific moment bathed in darkness and the rest is flames. An entire life wrought of death, sorrow, and fear.

It is who he becomes.

His whole purpose and life focused upon one goal. Destruction.

Nothing but.

A forsaken soul doomed to torture in an unending purgatory half-life. He cannot even control his own breath. He doesn’t breath, not for millennia.

More fire and he takes his first breath, His first gulp of air, his first moment sentenced to an even more oppressive prison. Earth. His language for hell.

The grip on his mind loosens in the eons left immobile beneath the rock. His mind more aware, the blackness fading to gray, and he can think.

Something ebbs from his cage and he can think. He can fathom endlessly through himself. There in nothing else to do, no physical stimulation to prevent his mind from wandering. And wander it does, and the darkness delights in the memories, and they twist.

They contort beyond reason, poisoned by experience and resignation. He is no longer what he once was, nothing left of the light in his soul. All blackened husks of flesh and feelings.

Soon, a light blinds him and he rejoices inside himself, as if something left has remained.

But it hasn’t.

Of course not. His last light is nothing but a parasite and it frees itself, leaving him to the shadows. And they swarm.

His memory leaves him. Nothing but night and terror left in it’s wake.

Overwhelming darkness and total abyss envelope all reason as his body is puppeted for years and years crawling and shrieking across the earth.

Pain is the next thing he remembers from the dreamstate his mind lives in. Excruciating pain. Broken limbs, torturous fever, rampant nightmares that rekindle a long lost life.

He is weak, his shadows succumb to their own terror, cannibalizing upon themselves in a frenzy of power. Seeking whatever sustenance in the pits that they can.

It is a moment of clarity, his mind finally free enough to open his eyes for real, take a real breath, work his lungs and heart physically, desperately, as his own.

He gasps for life, but is surrounded by black. Nothing new, no hope.

Then, a light. Another light, another unreachable light, untouchable, untainted. Familiar?

Vaguely.

Something to do with this pain. The cause.

Gurgling hisses are his only language and the light burns him, freezes him, renders him helpless. Fingers touch scarred gray cheeks and he goes numb.

 

“Wow, Kozzy, thats grim!” The little golden man chuckles from the depths of a plush chair.

“Certainly is.” The regal middle aged gentleman nods from his own chair, taking a puff on the golden capricorn cigar between his fingers.

His friend reaches for the gilt tumbler on the coffee table and sits back, sipping at a divinely high grade vortex vodka that Kozmotis is very proud of having acquired from some 30 galaxies over in the Virgo Empire.

The pair reclines in Koz’ sitting room in front of a warmly crackling micro red-dwarf in the hearth, stars twinkling in the chandelier that houses an infinite number of molecule universes. It has taken him centuries to build his empire, to relax in such luxury and he is generous in his social affairs, extending hospitality to all stellar families, of which Sanderson, his friend, is one.

“It was a dream you said? Did you have it commissioned?”

“A nightmare actually! Such novel endeavors they are. I am glad to have financed the shadows into production of such grandeur. Really, a much better use of their efforts than that silly war business.”

“Indeed! You will have to recommend to me your manufacturer. They seem very creative.”

“Yes. It was very real.” He puffed at the delicious tobacco.

“Glad we are here though, and not living that monstrosity. Just imagine! If i couldn’t talk! And sandy whips are so passe.”

“Quite. A scythe? How low class. Nightmares are a lovely reminder of the peace we now endure.”

“All thanks to you, though, Kozzy!”

“You flatter me, Sanderson. The military really was no life for me. The Lunanoffs deserved what they got. Because, really! What kind of idea from the darkest black holes was it to lock up fearlings on a lead planet guarded by one man? Doomed from the start, they were.”

“Ah, yes. But they were such a lovely naive house.”

“True, true. Very helpful to me in establishing my empire, and market.”

“Yes! Who would have guessed that all the shadows that we’ve been dying against for eons really wanted just a bit of attention? Selling nightmares has really raised their standard of living! Why, those Space Pirates turned cruise lines are just capital fun!”

“Indeed.”

“Oh, Koz?”

“Hm?”

“Who was that Frosty fellow in your nightmare?”

“No idea.”

 


End file.
